


Pattern Recognition

by QueenBee4Ever



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Crafts, Crochet, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBee4Ever/pseuds/QueenBee4Ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark loves to create. He finds a crochet hook. Howard doesn't like that.</p><p>Rated Teen for mild swearing, non-graphic violence against a child.</p><p>Quick fic, unbeta'd</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pattern Recognition

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Remember Pearl Harbor; Purl Harder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056574) by [greenjudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenjudy/pseuds/greenjudy). 



He remembered being fascinated by the dance of the hook in her hand.

He couldn’t sleep, and was fixed on finding that hook. It flashed at him as it went around and through the yarn. Stacked patterns, repeating over and over, like building blocks. He loved patterns. The world flashed patterns when he looked around. These patterns, though. These were special.

No one was awake in the servants sitting room, but the yarn basket was on the floor by the chair. He pulled at the mass of red, tracing the repeated pattern with his small, dextrous fingers - already skilled in metal and wood. This, this was different. This wasn’t what Father made, what Obie valued. This was comfort and warmth. Impulsively, he grabbed the hook and a ball of yarn (red, of course), and took them back to his room. 

Over the next week, he kept slipping into the sitting room, his slight build making it easy to be overlooked. To hide. He watched her, and then went back and worked out the motions. He played with the numbers, found the patterns he liked. A blue ball of yarn joined the red. And a white one. And a yellow one. 

Then she was gone, drove out by the anger and regret that permeated Stark Mansion. She never missed the small gold hook when she packed.

A new one came. More yarn, but she used two sticks instead of a hook. He didn’t like her. Anyways, he didn’t need help, the numbers showed him what worked. 

And he created. A blanket for his favorite screwdriver. A pouch to store his pliers. A Captain America doll (one of his own, not part of Father’s COLLECTION). A shield to keep him safe. He slept with that under his pillow, and held it when Father was loud. He acquired more hooks (crochet hooks, he now knew), different sizes for different patterns, different uses. 

His circuit work was getting better. Easier. The hook also made a great way to snag wires up when they slid into small gaps. The gold hook lived in his toolbox, special. The first one. The best one. 

If he couldn’t make metal do what he wanted, he’d try it in yarn. It helped him see.

One day he was sitting in the middle of the workshop, wires and scraps littered around him. It wasn’t WORKING. He couldn’t get it right, the angles, the fit, the tensions were off. Out of his pocket he pulled his kit -always have yarn and a hook in your pocket, never know what you’ll need. As he lost himself in creating, he smiled. Working with his hands was always good. 

He made a pretty picture, sitting in the sun, smiling at the craft in his hands. Sun catching his delicate features, making him glow, making the hook flash randomly as it went in and out, around and down.

Father stepped into the room and froze. Dropped his drink. The glass shattering made Tony jump, freeze. Father advanced on him, enraged, sputtering. 

“Anthony!”… smack. …You are a Stark and a man, and by god you will act like one!” …whack.

Tony ran, tears blurring his vision. He had to get there first, hide them. (Running always made it worse). When he reached the door to his room, Father was right behind him. Saw his creations, yarn in patterns, warmth from his hands. Father was so enraged he lost the power of speech. He hit Tony once more - Tony fell into darkness.

When Tony could see again, the yarn was ruined. The blanket, the pouch cut to shreds. His yarn tangled. The hooks bent beyond recognition. Father… no, Howard shaking his Cap doll like it was a personal offense. 

“If i ever see you with this girly shit ever again, you’ll regret it. Remember, Anthony. You are my son, and a Stark, and we never show weakness.”

Tony turned his back on Howard, climbed onto his bed, and sat. And sat. Howard ranted some more, then stormed off to burn everything. Eventually Tony reached under his pillow, and touched the edge of his shield. He feel asleep clutching it, dreaming of Captain America coming to save him.

The next month when he left for boarding school, the shield was hidden in his books. And a gold crochet hook was still in his toolbox.


End file.
